Chapter 3: Training Session
The steam from the bathroom seemed to have clung to them, a phantom humidity under their uniforms as they walked into the sterile, bright air of the training gym. The shift was jarring. The intimate, watery dark was replaced by the relentless glare of fluorescents on polished floors. The scent of chlorine and strawberry body wash was now overwhelmed by the honest stink of sweat, rubber mats, and industrial cleaner.
Katsuki led, his gait a confident swagger that dared anyone to question their presence. "Extra combat drills," he'd announced to the empty room, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "No distractions."
The door clicked shut, the lock engaging with a definitive thud that seemed to vibrate through Nala’s bones. The pretense was paper-thin, a formality they all ignored. The air, once neutral, now crackled with the same energy that had filled her bathroom.
Izuku was already shedding his top, his well-defined back flexing. "We never finished assessing your lower center of gravity, Nala. How it handles destabilizing forces." His tone was analytical, but his green eyes were dark, stripping her bare even before her clothes were off.
Shoto leaned against a stacked weight bench, his expression unreadable. "The mats should provide adequate traction."
It was Katsuki who moved first, closing the distance between himself and Nala in three swift strides. He didn't kiss her. He grabbed the front of her training jacket, ripping it open with a sharp tear of Velcro. "Enough talk. You're still loose from us, aren't you? Still wet."
He wasn't asking. He spun her around, bending her over the cool, padded leather of a weight bench. Her cheek pressed against the smell of old sweat and vinyl. Her leggings were yanked down to her knees in one rough pull, the cool air hitting her exposed skin. The soreness between her legs was a vivid reminder of their earlier thoroughness, a dull ache that his touch instantly reignited into a sharp throb of anticipation.
"Katsuki—" she started, her voice muffled.
"Shut it," he grunted, his own pants shoved down just enough. He spat into his palm, slicking himself, and then the broad, blunt head of his cock was pressing against her entrance. He pushed in, not with a slow burn, but with a single, conquering thrust that buried him deep. A choked cry was forced from her lungs. He was thick, stretching her, the feeling of being filled so raw and sudden it made her vision swim.
He set a brutal, pounding rhythm immediately, each drive of his hips slamming her body into the bench. The metal frame groaned in protest.
Izuku appeared in front of her, his cock already hard and jutting toward her mouth. He fisted it, tapping the head against her lips. "Open up. I want to feel that throat again."
With Katsuki hammering into her from behind, she had little choice. She opened her mouth, and Izuku fed his length into it, his grip firm in her hair. He wasn't gentle. He fucked her face in time with Katsuki's thrusts, a synchronized assault on her senses. She gagged, tears springing to her eyes as he hit the back of her throat, but he held her there, his hips pumping.
"Such a good fucking mouth," Izuku groaned, his analytical composure completely shattered. "You take us so well. Both ends."
The gym was filled with the sounds of them: the wet, rhythmic slap of Katsuki's pelvis against her ass, the ragged grunts he forced out with each thrust, the choked gags she made around Izuku's cock, his own low moans of pleasure. The public, sterile space was being defiled, made theirs.
Through tear-blurred eyes, she saw Shoto. He had moved. He stood now, watching them with that same predatory stillness, slowly stroking his own length. His heterochromatic eyes missed nothing—the way her body jolted with Katsuki's force, the stretch of her lips around Izuku. He was waiting. Patient. A glacier ready to avalanche.
Katsuki’s pace became frantic, his control breaking. "Gonna fill you up again," he snarled, his fingers digging bruises into her hips. "Mark my fucking spot."
He drove deep and held, a guttural roar tearing from his throat as he emptied himself inside her, his hot release pulsing, adding to the slick mess. He pulled out with a slick sound, stumbling back, breathing like he’d run a marathon.
Izuku followed suit, his own climax hitting him. He spilled into her mouth with a broken cry, and she swallowed convulsively, the salty taste a familiar violation.
They stepped back, leaving her bent over the bench, exposed and dripping. She was panting, utterly spent, her body trembling with the aftershocks.
Then Shoto was there.
His hands were cool on her heated skin. He didn't reposition her. He just ran a single, icy finger from the base of her spine down through the cleft of her ass, making her jolt violently.
"This hole," he stated, his voice low and certain. "It's mine now."
He pressed the head of his cock against her other, tighter entrance. There was no spit, no preamble, just the relentless pressure of his body. It was a burning, impossible stretch. She cried out, a raw, ragged sound as he pushed past the initial ring of muscle, burying himself inside her in one smooth, devastating motion.
"Fuck! Shoto—it's too much," she gasped, her fists clenching on the leather.
"It's not," he murmured, his hands settling on her hips, holding her immobile. He began to move, a slow, deep, punishing rhythm that was entirely his own. The feeling was overwhelming—a full, burning pressure that was so different from being fucked in her cunt. He felt deeper, like he was touching her very core.
He leaned over her, his chest against her back, his mouth near her ear. "You feel that?" he whispered, his breath cool. "That's all me. No one else has been here."
His pace quickened, his thrusts becoming harder, less controlled. The ice user was melting, his own composure burning away. The sound of their bodies meeting was sharper, more intimate. He was claiming a part of her the others hadn't, and the possessive finality of it pushed her over another edge. A silent, seizing orgasm ripped through her, her internal muscles clamping down on his invading length.
That was his undoing. With a sharp, choked gasp, Shoto buried himself to the hilt and came, a hot flood that seemed to brand her from the inside out.
He stayed there for a long moment, his body heavy on hers, before slowly pulling out.
Silence descended, heavier than before. The only sound was their ragged, collective breathing. Nala stayed bent over the bench, unable to move, feeling the evidence of all three of them trickling down her inner thighs. She was completely and utterly claimed.
Katsuki was the first to speak, zipping his pants. His voice was rough, but lacked its earlier edge. "We're done here."
Izuku handed her a towel from a nearby rack, his touch surprisingly gentle. His eyes held a complex mix of sated lust and something softer, almost like concern.
Shoto simply adjusted his clothes, his expression already returning to its neutral mask, though a faint flush remained high on his cheekbones.
They began to clean up, erasing the physical evidence. But as Nala slowly straightened her clothes, her body aching in a dozen new and profound ways, she knew some marks wouldn't wash off. The gym, a place of public discipline, was now forever etched with the memory of their private ruin. And as they walked out, one by one, into the bright, empty hallway, the silence between them was louder than any of the noises they had just made.
The fluorescent lights of the hallway hummed, a sterile counterpoint to the animal memory of the gym. Each step was a small agony, a delicious reminder of the thorough claiming her body had endured. The soreness between her legs was a persistent, warm throb, and the feeling of their combined releases drying on her inner thighs was a secret she carried under her training clothes.
Katsuki walked slightly ahead, his shoulders tense. "Don't limp," he muttered without turning around, his voice low and gruff.
She straightened her spine, forcing her gait to even out, the ferocious hero-in-training mask sliding back into place for anyone who might see. But inside, she was liquid and ruined.
Izuku fell into step beside her, his hand brushing against hers. "Your resilience is incredible," he whispered, his words for her alone. His gaze was heated, already analyzing, already replaying every gasp and tremble.
Shoto brought up the rear, a silent sentinel. His cool presence was a balm and a provocation. He said nothing, but his eyes, when they met hers in the reflective surface of a classroom door, held a possessive gleam that promised the night was far from over.
They didn't speak until the door to her dorm room clicked shut, sealing them in a new kind of silence, thick and expectant. The fantasy landscapes on her walls watched over the scene, the hidden shelf of love letters a silent testament to this fractured, intimate truth.
Katsuki shattered the quiet. He pushed her back against the door, his body caging hers. "You're still thinking about it," he accused, his breath hot on her face. "I can smell it on you. All of us."
His hand slid between her legs, palm pressing hard against the damp fabric of her leggings. She hissed, arching into the pressure. "So what if I am?"
Izuku was there then, pulling Katsuki back by the shoulder. "My turn to lead." The shift in power was immediate and electric. He cupped her face, his thumb tracing her lower lip. "On the bed. Now."
He didn't wait for compliance. He walked her backwards until her knees hit the mattress and she fell onto the rumpled sheets. He followed her down, covering her, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that was less about passion and more about reassertion. He pulled back, his green eyes dark. "I want to watch you come apart without anyone else inside you. Just my hand. Just my mouth."
He yanked her leggings and underwear down her legs in one efficient motion. He shoved her thighs apart, his gaze dropping to the swollen, slick evidence of their earlier gym session. He groaned, a raw sound. "Fuck, you're a mess. Our mess."
He buried his face between her legs without another word. His tongue was relentless, a flat, demanding pressure that licked through the mingled wetness, cleaning her, claiming her all over again. He zeroed in on her clit, sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth, and her back bowed off the bed, a broken cry torn from her throat.
"Jesus, Izuku!"
He didn't let up. His tongue flicked and circled while two of his fingers pushed back inside her, curling, searching for that spot that made her see stars. He found it. A jolt of pure, white-hot pleasure seized her. "Right there," he commanded, his voice muffled against her flesh. "Come on my face. Now."
It was too fast, too direct. The orgasm crashed over her, violent and shattering. She screamed, her hands fisting in his green curls, holding him there as she convulsed against his mouth. He drank her in, lapping at her until she was whimpering, pushing weakly at his head.
He finally pulled back, his chin glistening. He looked utterly debauched, and utterly in control.
Katsuki had been watching, stroking himself slowly, his expression a mix of irritation and arousal. "Finished playing, Deku?"
Shoto, who had been leaning against her desk, finally moved. He came to the side of the bed, his gaze fixed on her spent form. "My turn isn't over either." He looked at Katsuki. "Hold her up."
Katsuki grunted, but moved behind her, pulling her up so she was sitting in his lap, her back against his chest. Her head lolled against his shoulder, exhaustion and renewed desire warring within her.
Shoto knelt on the floor in front of them. He guided his cock, still half-hard, to her lips. "Clean it," he said, his voice quiet but absolute. "Clean me off you."
The order was so degrading it sent a fresh thrill through her. She opened her mouth, taking him in, tasting the faint, musky remnant of himself on his skin. She licked and sucked, her tongue swirling around the head, down the shaft, until he was fully hard again, his breath coming in sharp gusts.
"Good," he murmured, his hand tangling in her platinum curls.
Then he shifted. He pushed her legs wider, his cool fingers tracing the puffy, well-used flesh of her cunt. "Katsuki filled this one." His fingers moved lower, pressing against the tight, forbidden pucker of her ass. "I took this one." His touch was proprietary, a cartographer of her body. "But this," he said, his thumb rubbing slow, firm circles over her clit, "this is everyone's."
He increased the pressure, his thumb a relentless, perfect metronome. The overstimulated nerve endings screamed, then sang. Another orgasm, sharper than the first, ripped through her. It was a dry, wrenching climax that left her gasping and blind, her body seizing in Katsuki's arms.
Before the last tremor had even faded, Shoto was moving. He rose up, positioning himself at her entrance. He pushed into her wet, willing warmth in one smooth, deep stroke. She was so sensitized every ridge of his cock was a distinct, agonizing pleasure.
"Fuck," Katsuki growled in her ear, his own hips shifting underneath her, his erection pressing into her back. "Feel him? Feel how deep he is?"
Shoto set a brutal, steady pace, his thrusts punctuated by the wet slap of skin. His heterochromatic eyes were locked on hers, and in them, she saw the glacier finally crack. "You belong to us," he breathed, his composure gone, replaced by a raw, hungry need. "Every part. Every fucking hole."
His pace became frantic, his control shattering. He drove into her, again and again, his fingers digging into her hips. With a guttural cry that was half-sob, he came, pumping his release deep inside her, adding his heat to the pool already there.
He collapsed forward, his forehead resting on her shoulder, his body trembling.
For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged, overlapping breaths. The room smelled of sex and sweat and them. Katsuki’s grip on her loosened, his head falling back against the headboard. Izuku watched from the foot of the bed, his expression unreadable.
Slowly, carefully, Shoto pulled out. He didn't look at any of them as he stood and walked to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. The click of the lock was the period at the end of the sentence.
Nala slid from Katsuki's lap onto the cool sheets, her body a map of their possession. She felt hollowed out, used, and more alive than she ever had in her life. The silence returned, but this time it was different. It was saturated. It was complete.
Katsuki stood, adjusting his clothes. "Training. Six AM," he said, his voice rough but devoid of its earlier aggression. It was just a fact.
He and Izuku moved toward the door, a wordless understanding passing between them. They left without a backward glance, leaving her alone in the wreckage of her room, of her body. The phantom sensations of their hands, their mouths, their cocks, played over her skin like a haunting melody. She curled onto her side, pulling the sheet over herself, and let the deep, bone-weary satisfaction pull her under. The night was over, but the secret, she knew, was just beginning to truly take root.